


Categorical Imperative

by AnnaFan



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Plague, Teitho Fanfiction Contest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:13:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26042494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaFan/pseuds/AnnaFan
Summary: Two rangers, separated by fifty years, watch the collision between political decision making and morality.Written for the Teitho Challenge "Good of the Many".(Content warning - mentions of plague and pandemic.)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	Categorical Imperative

_Lord Peter Wimsey: “The first thing a principle does — if it really is a principle — is to kill somebody.” (Dorothy L Sayers, Gaudy Night)_

(Content warning: discussion of plague and pandemic.)

**Minas Tirith, 2969**

A ranger leans against the wall in a dark corner of the musty office.

Seated in an elaborately carved chair, the chief archivist holds forth. Around him are seated (on more modest stools) his audience of young men.

The set-up, Thorongil knows, is meant to mimic that of the long lost university of Osgiliath. Even down to the disputatious method which records suggest was the favoured form of teaching. The young men have each been given a famous thinker from the past whose views they must defend. He looks at the young men in turn: Turgon, hard working but dull witted, who cannot seem to grasp the important points but still talks at great length; Tondir, rather brighter, but more given to the quick bon mot than any deep analysis of the problem; Castamir, who, for all his noble blood, still somehow reminds Thorongil of some of the slipperier customers he has encountered in distant taverns in the far north; and finally Denethor, son of the Steward, and his charge for the day, sharp of mind, sharper of tongue, yet with an uncomfortable air of intellectual zealotry about him.

The discussion itself does not interest him. He has seen this played out, at a level of sophistication far greater than these callow youths are capable of attaining, between Erestor and his assistant, many, many times in the Hall of Fire in Rivendell.

Glorfindel, he recalls, has little patience with these convoluted exercises in contemplating one’s own navel. Though, he suddenly remembers with an inward stab of amusement, the Elf Lord occasionally lobs the equivalent of a wizard’s firework into the middle of the conversation, just to watch the fun. Thorongil decides this might be worth a try.

“Would it help,” Thorongil asks, affecting the innocent tone of a bluff soldier who cannot deal with the subtlety of these deep philosophical discussions, “If you put it in terms of a concrete example?”

“By all means,” says the archivist. “What did you have in mind?”

“Well, actually, two examples, both drawn from time of great pestilence. The first occurred during the plague of 1636. Although Tharbard was all but consumed, losing half its population, the region further to the east was relatively untouched. All except for one village, where plague broke out, probably brought by a bale of cloth imported from Tharbard. The mayor called the chief families together, and they voluntarily sealed themselves off from the surrounding countryside. Other villages sent envoys with food, which they left in parcels by the gate of the boundary hedge; the villagers inside paid with coin left in a jar of vinegar to cleanse the foul humours. By the end of their self imposed isolation, three quarters of the village had perished – but the pestilence never spread to the surrounding villages.

“The second occurred more recently, only 150 years ago, with an outbreak of plague brought to Pelargir from further south. The governor of Pelargir sealed off the area round the docks, with its mean streets and tall, crowded tenements – an area already suffering great poverty. He posted sentries round the gates which led into the district and refused to let any enter or leave. Sacks of barley were delivered to the entrances daily, but nonetheless it is thought that as many died of starvation and tainted water as died of the pestilence itself – again around three quarters of the population.

“Now in both cases, the few (relatively speaking) were sacrificed for the many. And in both cases the strategy worked; the pestilence was contained and many, many lives were saved. Why then is the Mayor in Eregion lauded as a hero, while the governor is still remembered today as an evil man responsible for the deaths of thousands?”

The archivist gives a slow nod of appreciation.

Turgon, inordinately fond of the sound of his own voice, launches in immediately with a somewhat garbled account of the ancient philosopher Milimir’s principle of bringing the greatest good to the greatest number. However, he soon founders, not being able to articulate any reason why (given that in both cases, taken as a whole, a greater number had survived than died) the two cases differ. He is reduced, in fairly short order, to the utterly implausible speculation (without the underlying knowledge to back up his claim, or the wit to put up a convincing case as to why it should matter) that the population of ancient Eregion must have been greater than that of modern Pelargir, and thus a greater good had been done. Not long after this, presumably because even Turgon can see that he has stretched plausibility to breaking point he runs out of steam (which, Thorongil reflects, must be a first). 

Thorongil is well satisfied with the first burst of sparks from his firework. 

Next into the fray is Tondir. He, beingquite a kind hearted young man beneath his endless flow of gentle banter, attempts to resuscitate at least parts of Turgon’s argument. Perhaps the answer lies, he says, in the later commentaries on Milimir offered by Ralboron, who looks to how one might construct the ideal, perfect city-state from first principles. One can take the principle of bringing the greatest good to the greatest number and temper it with the realisation that one should aim to do minimal damage to the few. Ralboron, he offers, proposes that we do not think through the principle in every individual case, working from first principles, but that we use it as a guide to the construction of just and equitable laws. And that we supplement it by a kind of principle of blind justice; in Ralboron’s imaginary city there will be winners in the lottery of life, and losers, and the laws should be drawn up with a conscious effort to imagine that one does not know whether one will be one of the winners or losers. In this way, by adopting this policy of conscious blindness, one will construct laws which which pay heed to the weakest in society as well as the strongest, rather than laws which simply entrench the views of the powerful. 

Unfortunately, Tondir does not seem to be able to apply this to the question of why the mayor was right and the governor wrong. Neither situation seems to involve any invocation of this principle of blind justice.

At this point, young lord Castamir gives an audible snort of exasperation. Surely everyone knows that laws are never made in this imaginary state of blindness; they are always made by the strong and powerful. He silences Tondir’s protest (something to the effect of the state of blindness being an intellectual exercise to help the strong and powerful add justice to their strength and power) with a peremptory wave of his hand.

Thorongil half listens, more interested in what the discussion tells him about the young men’s characters than the actual arguments they put forward. Castamir has no time for philosophers, but rather cites legal precedent, military strategy and treatises on statecraft. There is no doubt about it; he is a very, very intelligent young man, with a keen grasp on the details of law. And interestingly, his argument is a bold one. 

There is no need to explain why the governor of Pelargir was wrong, Castamir claims, for the simple reason that he was in fact right. He saved many lives with his decisions, and that is the only measure of the rightness or wrongness of the decision. Castamir draws on military precedents (cases where the vanguard of an army was sacrificed to lure the enemy into attacking in the wrong place, cases where a double agent was fed false information in the knowledge that he would give it up under torture, even if that then led to his death). He alludes to sophisticated legal precedents. The performance is so slick that most the audience (even the archivist, but not Denethor, the Ranger notes with interest) begin to be carried along by the rhetoric. Castamir does however, Thorongil feels, let the mask slip a little when he quotes from from his namesake’s infamous book of statecraft, _The Prince._

What sort of father, Thorongil wonders, calls his son Castamir? An ignoramous who knows no history? Or an ambitious but unprincipled bastard who hopes his son will grow up like him? 

At last, Denethor, son of Ecthelion II, joins the discussion. Thorongil has wondered how long he would bide his time. He has the gaunt frame and features of his father, and the intensity of gaze and intellect, but there is a hungry look in his eyes too.

“I reject Milimir’s principle of the greatest good,” he says. “For it reduces men to mere beans or grains of sand, to be counted up and weighed in the balance. Instead, I cleave to the writings of Cantor – each man should be treated, not as a means to an end, but as an end in himself. Thus, because the mayor and families in Eregion chose for themselves, what they did was willingly undertaken for the greater good, whereas when the governor of Pelargir imprisoned the population, he treated them as a means to an end, not as ends in themselves.”

Thorongil watches the young Denethor deliver this speech, voice strong and clear, back ramrod straight, eyes burning with the conviction of the righteous. He feels a faint shiver run across the back of his neck. Such unshakeable conviction that a man believes himself to hold the key to distinguishing right and wrong, absolutely and without shadow of a doubt, rarely ends well. Especially when coupled to absolute power – which Denethor will inherit. Doubly so when that power is wielded in a situation which is messy and dangerous, and involves military campaigning and political manoeuvring where compromise is the stuff of life, and absolutes the stuff of… Well, death.

The principle itself is a good one. It is the state of mind that goes with valuing principles that worries Thorongil. He can’t quite put his finger on it, but he suspects it may be that the value of life itself comes second in importance for Denethor to the purity of holding to the principle. Denethor would undoubtedly be a juster, more equitable ruler than Castamir, with the latter’s naked self-interest and opportunism. This is fortunate, since it is Denethor who is destined to rule

Yet at the same time a crucial question remains: what will Denethor do when faced with an intractable dilemma? Learn to compromise? Or simply redirect the pure holding of principles towards those more amenable to the outcome he needs?

Thorongil feels a faint pin-prick of guilt as he realises that, much as he likes Ecthelion, he dislikes Ecthelion’s son.

**Minas Tirith, March 3018**

A ranger leans against the wall in a dark corner of the musty office.

At a table in the centre of the office, Denethor II pores over a map of Anorien, Lords Turgon and Castamir in attendance. 

Faramir knows the dilemma facing his father. He should do – after all, it was he who drew the dispositions of troops on the map, noted the proximity of one enemy column to Cair Andros, and a second to the narrow crossing further up river.

Just across the river from that narrow crossing is the town of Sarn Esgar. 

Faramir knows what the enemy intends – or can take a fairly shrewd guess. Cross the river, set Sarn Esgar ablaze, draw Gondor’s troops north. Then strike against the depleted garrison at Cair Andros. Denethor can either defend the town and risk losing Cair Andros (with the added disadvantage of revealing the fact that he has very good scouts on the Ithilien side of the river tracking the enemy’s troop movements with considerable accuracy). Or leave the town to the mercy of the forces of Mordor and hold Cair Andros.

Denethor straightens, and walks to the window. Outside, the evening is drawing in. The sky is a deep blue, and the quadrangle outside is dark with the long shadows of impending night.

“We have no choice; we must sacrifice Sarn Esgar, or we risk losing Cair Andros, and in short order, Minas Tirith itself.”

There is a long silence.

Then Castamir starts to laugh.

“The ascetic student of philosophy with the burning sword of righteousness in one hand and the shield of absolute moral truth in the other has finally collided with reality. It’s taken fifty years, but you’ve finally had to concede that the greater good of the greater number matters.”

No-one else in the room dares to join in with the laughter. Castamir, whose laugh (to Faramir at any rate) sounded somewhat forced, lapses back into silence.

“You mistake me, as ever. But then you were always a pragmatist rather than a philosopher. It is not that the greater good outweighs the principle that men should be treated as ends in themselves, but that the good of the kingdom, of Gondor herself, is a higher principle even than that of the intrinsic value of each individual man.”

Faramir’s immediate thought is that Gondor is constituted by its citizens, but having provoked his father’s rage several times already since he returned with his report of the enemy’s troop dispositions, he keeps that thought to himself.

**Minas Tirith, 3021**

Two rangers sit in the darkness, but the air is fresh and clean for they sit beneath a tree in the garden as night draws in.

The talk turns to the losses of the war, and the sacrifices made, and the comrades lost, whose bodies now lie beneath green turf.

It is Faramir who brings up the question of the good of the many. He tells the man beside him of the dilemma his father faced over whether to save Sarn Esgar or sacrifice it to keep the garrison secure. The decision he feels was right, but the reasons his father gave were not the right ones. He has mulled over his father’s words for close to three years now. Cautiously – for the man he is talking to is the king, after all – he floats his idea that the good of Gondor is in fact the good of its citizens, not separate from it, or embodied in the Steward’s office, or even the King’s person. He is careful to remain non committal about this theory.

It is indeed an interesting idea, Elessar concedes, but then presses his Steward. “But what do you think?” he asks, then smiles to himself, remembering how he laughed, all those years ago, at the archivist’s formalised method of disputation. Maybe the man was onto something after all.

“That the Rohirrim are perhaps right – kingship resides in the consent and agreement of the people ruled over, and is not something handed down on high from the Valar.”

The man who was Thorongil mulls this over. He is acutely aware of the weight of history upon him, and the weight of blood lines. He cannot entirely accept the idea of kingship as arbitrary, as malleable, as subject to the shifting sands of political fortune and consent. But at the same time, he knows that this task – of rebuilding a kingdom – will require more than history or blood. Above all, it will need the support of the people. 

He turns his thoughts instead to the other aspect of Denethor’s decision making, the one he was perhaps more acquainted with himself all those many years ago. Back then it had seemed interesting mainly for the light it cast on the characters of the young men. But now he is the king, the substance of the discussion seems more pertinent. He pushes his Steward, this son of Denethor, to see how he will react.

“And the good of the many? Do you sacrifice the unwilling individual for the good of the many? And if one, then ten? Or a score? Or a hundred?”

Faramir frowns. He is on uncomfortable ground, and he knows it.

“The geometer within me wants formal proofs, proceeding from unassailable axioms to unquestionable truths. Which I suppose is the appeal of the two extremes: both of a defence of the good of the many, as a form of mathematical ‘weighing of the good’, and also of the primary axiom that each man is an end in himself. And the two seem to clash irreconcilably. Perhaps all this really tells us is that morality is not like geometry.”

“You are ducking the question,” Elessar says, but his voice is gentle.

Faramir laughs. “May I have my cake and eat it?” he asks. “Argue that without according value to each individual life, one may not sum them up to arrive at any conception of the good of the many; and also argue that the good of the many cannot exist without the liberty of the individual?”

“And can you formalise that?” Elessar asks.

“No. But though it falls short of absolute deductive reasoning, I can use the two thoughts as general measures with which to criticise and improve upon laws that are proposed within this realm. I can strive for balance, for something in the middle.”

There is still a note of discomfort in the younger man’s voice. Elessar finds this uncertainty reassuring. Fifty years has not removed his own discomfort in the company of men who believe they are right, whose moral certitude shines out from them with a messianic zeal. The contrast with the man before him could not be clearer; the obvious humanity behind Faramir’s struggle to balance a need for precision with a need to accommodate all the messy inconsistencies of human nature goes a long way to removing any concerns about whether his Steward is a carbon copy of his father, or his own man.

The man who was Thorongil decides he both likes and trusts this young man far more than he liked his father.

He likes him still better when the younger man says, “It is getting dark. Shall we return indoors and see if the butler has tapped that cask of ale the housekeeper ordered?”

Yes, both the many and the few will be safe in the hands of this man.


End file.
